CHAPTER 1
OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT
HIS MALADY
Cide Hamete Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, and third sally
of Don Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained nearly a
month without seeing him, lest they should recall or bring back to his recol-
lection what had taken place. They did not, however, omit to visit his niece
and housekeeper, and charge them to be careful to treat him with attention,
and give him comforting things to eat, and such as were good for the heart
and the brain, whence, it was plain to see, all his misfortune proceeded. The
niece and housekeeper replied that they did so, and meant to do so with all
possible care and assiduity, for they could perceive that their master was
now and then beginning to show signs of being in his right mind. This gave
great satisfaction to the curate and the barber, for they concluded they had
taken the right course in carrying him off enchanted on the ox-cart, as has
been described in the First Part of this great as well as accurate history, in
the last chapter thereof. So they resolved to pay him a visit and test the im-
provement in his condition, although they thought it almost impossible that
there could be any; and they agreed not to touch upon any point connected
with knight-errantry so as not to run the risk of reopening wounds which
were still so tender.
They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting up in bed in a
green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and so withered and dried up
that he looked as if he had been turned into a mummy. They were very cor-
dially received by him; they asked him after his health, and he talked to
them about himself very naturally and in very well-chosen language. In the
course of their conversation they fell to discussing what they call State-craft
and systems of government, correcting this abuse and condemning that, re-
forming one practice and abolishing another, each of the three setting up for
a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or a brand-new Solon; and so com-
pletely did they remodel the State, that they seemed to have thrust it into a
furnace and taken out something quite different from what they had put in;
and on all the subjects they dealt with, Don Quixote spoke with such good
sense that the pair of examiners were fully convinced that he was quite re-
covered and in his full senses.
The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could
not find words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their master
so clear in his mind; the curate, however, changing his original plan, which
was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry, resolved to test Don
Quixote’s recovery thoroughly, and see whether it were genuine or not; and
so, from one subject to another, he came at last to talk of the news that had
come from the capital, and, among other things, he said it was considered
certain that the Turk was coming down with a powerful fleet, and that no
one knew what his purpose was, or when the great storm would burst; and
that all Christendom was in apprehension of this, which almost every year
calls us to arms, and that his Majesty had made provision for the security of
the coasts of Naples and Sicily and the island of Malta.
To this Don Quixote replied, “His Majesty has acted like a prudent war-
rior in providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the enemy may
not find him unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would recommend
him to adopt a measure which at present, no doubt, his Majesty is very far
from thinking of.”
The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, “God keep thee in
his hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art precipitating thyself
from the height of thy madness into the profound abyss of thy simplicity.”
But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked Don
Quixote what would be his advice as to the measures that he said ought to
be adopted; for perhaps it might prove to be one that would have to be
added to the list of the many impertinent suggestions that people were in the
habit of offering to princes.
“Mine, master shaver,” said Don Quixote, “will not be impertinent, but,
on the contrary, pertinent.”
“I don’t mean that,” said the barber, “but that experience has shown that
all or most of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty are either
impossible, or absurd, or injurious to the King and to the kingdom.”
“Mine, however,” replied Don Quixote, “is neither impossible nor absurd,
but the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most expeditious that
could suggest itself to any projector’s mind.”
“You take a long time to tell it, Senor Don Quixote,” said the curate.
“I don’t choose to tell it here, now,” said Don Quixote, “and have it reach
the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow morning, and some other car-
ry off the thanks and rewards of my trouble.”
“For my part,” said the barber, “I give my word here and before God that
I will not repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or earthly man—an
oath I learned from the ballad of the curate, who, in the prelude, told the
king of the thief who had robbed him of the hundred gold crowns and his
pacing mule.”
“I am not versed in stories,” said Don Quixote; “but I know the oath is a
good one, because I know the barber to be an honest fellow.”
“Even if he were not,” said the curate, “I will go bail and answer for him
that in this matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under pain of paying any
penalty that may be pronounced.”
“And who will be security for you, senor curate?” said Don Quixote.
“My profession,” replied the curate, “which is to keep secrets.”
“Ods body!” said Don Quixote at this, “what more has his Majesty to do
but to command, by public proclamation, all the knights-errant that are scat-
tered over Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the capital, for even if no
more than half a dozen come, there may be one among them who alone will
suffice to destroy the entire might of the Turk. Give me your attention and
follow me. Is it, pray, any new thing for a single knight-errant to demolish
an army of two hundred thousand men, as if they all had but one throat or
were made of sugar paste? Nay, tell me, how many histories are there filled
with these marvels? If only (in an evil hour for me: I don’t speak for anyone
else) the famous Don Belianis were alive now, or any one of the innumer-
able progeny of Amadis of Gaul! If any these were alive today, and were to
come face to face with the Turk, by my faith, I would not give much for the
Turk’s chance. But God will have regard for his people, and will provide
some one, who, if not so valiant as the knights-errant of yore, at least will
not be inferior to them in spirit; but God knows what I mean, and I say no
more.”
“Alas!” exclaimed the niece at this, “may I die if my master does not
want to turn knight-errant again;” to which Don Quixote replied, “A knight-
errant I shall die, and let the Turk come down or go up when he likes, and
in as strong force as he can, once more I say, God knows what I mean.” But
here the barber said, “I ask your worships to give me leave to tell a short
story of something that happened in Seville, which comes so pat to the pur-
pose just now that I should like greatly to tell it.” Don Quixote gave him
leave, and the rest prepared to listen, and he began thus:
“In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had
placed there as being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna in canon
law; but even if he had been of Salamanca, it was the opinion of most peo-
ple that he would have been mad all the same. This graduate, after some
years of confinement, took it into his head that he was sane and in his full
senses, and under this impression wrote to the Archbishop, entreating him
earnestly, and in very correct language, to have him released from the mis-
ery in which he was living; for by God’s mercy he had now recovered his
lost reason, though his relations, in order to enjoy his property, kept him
there, and, in spite of the truth, would make him out to be mad until his dy-
ing day. The Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well-written letters,
directed one of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as to the
truth of the licentiate’s statements, and to have an interview with the mad-
man himself, and, if it should appear that he was in his senses, to take him
out and restore him to liberty. The chaplain did so, and the governor assured
him that the man was still mad, and that though he often spoke like a highly
intelligent person, he would in the end break out into nonsense that in quan-
tity and quality counterbalanced all the sensible things he had said before,
as might be easily tested by talking to him. The chaplain resolved to try the
experiment, and obtaining access to the madman conversed with him for an
hour or more, during the whole of which time he never uttered a word that
was incoherent or absurd, but, on the contrary, spoke so rationally that the
chaplain was compelled to believe him to be sane. Among other things, he
said the governor was against him, not to lose the presents his relations
made him for reporting him still mad but with lucid intervals; and that the
worst foe he had in his misfortune was his large property; for in order to en-
joy it his enemies disparaged and threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord
had shown him in turning him from a brute beast into a man. In short, he
spoke in such a way that he cast suspicion on the governor, and made his
relations appear covetous and heartless, and himself so rational that the
chaplain determined to take him away with him that the Archbishop might
see him, and ascertain for himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this
conviction, the worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the clothes in
which the licentiate had entered the house given to him. The governor again
bade him beware of what he was doing, as the licentiate was beyond a
doubt still mad; but all his cautions and warnings were unavailing to dis-
suade the chaplain from taking him away. The governor, seeing that it was
the order of the Archbishop, obeyed, and they dressed the licentiate in his
own clothes, which were new and decent. He, as soon as he saw himself
clothed like one in his senses, and divested of the appearance of a madman,
entreated the chaplain to permit him in charity to go and take leave of his
comrades the madmen. The chaplain said he would go with him to see what
madmen there were in the house; so they went upstairs, and with them some
of those who were present. Approaching a cage in which there was a furi-
ous madman, though just at that moment calm and quiet, the licentiate said
to him, ‘Brother, think if you have any commands for me, for I am going
home, as God has been pleased, in his infinite goodness and mercy, without
any merit of mine, to restore me my reason. I am now cured and in my
senses, for with God’s power nothing is impossible. Have strong hope and
trust in him, for as he has restored me to my original condition, so likewise
he will restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to send you some
good things to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would have you know I
am convinced, as one who has gone through it, that all this madness of ours
comes of having the stomach empty and the brains full of wind. Take
courage! take courage! for despondency in misfortune breaks down health
and brings on death.’
“To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage opposite
that of the furious one was listening; and raising himself up from an old mat
on which he lay stark naked, he asked in a loud voice who it was that was
going away cured and in his senses. The licentiate answered, ‘It is I, brother,
who am going; I have now no need to remain here any longer, for which I
return infinite thanks to Heaven that has had so great mercy upon me.’
“‘Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don’t let the devil deceive you,’
replied the madman. ‘Keep quiet, stay where you are, and you will save
yourself the trouble of coming back.’
“‘I know I am cured,’ returned the licentiate, ‘and that I shall not have to
go stations again.’
“‘You cured!’ said the madman; ‘well, we shall see; God be with you; but
I swear to you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that for this
crime alone, which Seville is committing to-day in releasing you from this
house, and treating you as if you were in your senses, I shall have to inflict
such a punishment on it as will be remembered for ages and ages, amen.
Dost thou not know, thou miserable little licentiate, that I can do it, being,
as I say, Jupiter the Thunderer, who hold in my hands the fiery bolts with
which I am able and am wont to threaten and lay waste the world? But in
one way only will I punish this ignorant town, and that is by not raining
upon it, nor on any part of its district or territory, for three whole years, to
be reckoned from the day and moment when this threat is pronounced.
Thou free, thou cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I disordered, I bound!
I will as soon think of sending rain as of hanging myself.
“Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of the mad-
man; but our licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing him by the
hands, said to him, ‘Be not uneasy, senor; attach no importance to what this
madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will not send rain, I, who am Nep-
tune, the father and god of the waters, will rain as often as it pleases me and
may be needful.’
“The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter the chap-
lain was half ashamed, and he replied, ‘For all that, Senor Neptune, it will
not do to vex Senor Jupiter; remain where you are, and some other day,
when there is a better opportunity and more time, we will come back for
you.’ So they stripped the licentiate, and he was left where he was; and
that’s the end of the story.”
“So that’s the story, master barber,” said Don Quixote, “which came in so
pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it? Master shaver, master
shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a sieve. Is it possible that
you do not know that comparisons of wit with wit, valour with valour,
beauty with beauty, birth with birth, are always odious and unwelcome? I,
master barber, am not Neptune, the god of the waters, nor do I try to make
anyone take me for an astute man, for I am not one. My only endeavour is
to convince the world of the mistake it makes in not reviving in itself the
happy time when the order of knight-errantry was in the field. But our de-
praved age does not deserve to enjoy such a blessing as those ages enjoyed
when knights-errant took upon their shoulders the defence of kingdoms, the
protection of damsels, the succour of orphans and minors, the chastisement
of the proud, and the recompense of the humble. With the knights of these
days, for the most part, it is the damask, brocade, and rich stuffs they wear,
that rustle as they go, not the chain mail of their armour; no knight now-a-
days sleeps in the open field exposed to the inclemency of heaven, and in
full panoply from head to foot; no one now takes a nap, as they call it, with-
out drawing his feet out of the stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, as the
knights-errant used to do; no one now, issuing from the wood, penetrates
yonder mountains, and then treads the barren, lonely shore of the sea—
mostly a tempestuous and stormy one—and finding on the beach a little
bark without oars, sail, mast, or tackling of any kind, in the intrepidity of
his heart flings himself into it and commits himself to the wrathful billows
of the deep sea, that one moment lift him up to heaven and the next plunge
him into the depths; and opposing his breast to the irresistible gale, finds
himself, when he least expects it, three thousand leagues and more away
from the place where he embarked; and leaping ashore in a remote and un-
known land has adventures that deserve to be written, not on parchment, but
on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy, indolence over exertion, vice
over virtue, arrogance over courage, and theory over practice in arms,
which flourished and shone only in the golden ages and in knights-errant.
For tell me, who was more virtuous and more valiant than the famous
Amadis of Gaul? Who more discreet than Palmerin of England? Who more
gracious and easy than Tirante el Blanco? Who more courtly than Lisuarte
of Greece? Who more slashed or slashing than Don Belianis? Who more
intrepid than Perion of Gaul? Who more ready to face danger than Felix-
marte of Hircania? Who more sincere than Esplandian? Who more impetu-
ous than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more bold than Rodamonte? Who
more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring than Reinaldos? Who
more invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and courteous than
Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present day are descend-
ed, according to Turpin in his ‘Cosmography.’ All these knights, and many
more that I could name, senor curate, were knights-errant, the light and glo-
ry of chivalry. These, or such as these, I would have to carry out my plan,
and in that case his Majesty would find himself well served and would save
great expense, and the Turk would be left tearing his beard. And so I will
stay where I am, as the chaplain does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as
the barber has told us, will not send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I
please. I say this that Master Basin may know that I understand him.”
“Indeed, Senor Don Quixote,” said the barber, “I did not mean it in that
way, and, so help me God, my intention was good, and your worship ought
not to be vexed.”
“As to whether I ought to be vexed or not,” returned Don Quixote, “I my-
self am the best judge.”
Hereupon the curate observed, “I have hardly said a word as yet; and I
would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote has
said, that worries and works my conscience.”
“The senor curate has leave for more than that,” returned Don Quixote,
“so he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to have a doubt on one’s
conscience.”
“Well then, with that permission,” said the curate, “I say my doubt is that,
all I can do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole pack of knights-errant
you, Senor Don Quixote, have mentioned, were really and truly persons of
flesh and blood, that ever lived in the world; on the contrary, I suspect it to
be all fiction, fable, and falsehood, and dreams told by men awakened from
sleep, or rather still half asleep.”
“That is another mistake,” replied Don Quixote, “into which many have
fallen who do not believe that there ever were such knights in the world,
and I have often, with divers people and on divers occasions, tried to expose
this almost universal error to the light of truth. Sometimes I have not been
successful in my purpose, sometimes I have, supporting it upon the shoul-
ders of the truth; which truth is so clear that I can almost say I have with my
own eyes seen Amadis of Gaul, who was a man of lofty stature, fair com-
plexion, with a handsome though black beard, of a countenance between
gentle and stern in expression, sparing of words, slow to anger, and quick to
put it away from him; and as I have depicted Amadis, so I could, I think,
portray and describe all the knights-errant that are in all the histories in the
world; for by the perception I have that they were what their histories de-
scribe, and by the deeds they did and the dispositions they displayed, it is
possible, with the aid of sound philosophy, to deduce their features, com-
plexion, and stature.”
“How big, in your worship’s opinion, may the giant Morgante have been,
Senor Don Quixote?” asked the barber.
“With regard to giants,” replied Don Quixote, “opinions differ as to
whether there ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy Scripture,
which cannot err by a jot from the truth, shows us that there were, when it
gives us the history of that big Philistine, Goliath, who was seven cubits and
a half in height, which is a huge size. Likewise, in the island of Sicily, there
have been found leg-bones and arm-bones so large that their size makes it
plain that their owners were giants, and as tall as great towers; geometry
puts this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I cannot speak with certainty
as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect he cannot have been very tall;
and I am inclined to be of this opinion because I find in the history in which
his deeds are particularly mentioned, that he frequently slept under a roof
and as he found houses to contain him, it is clear that his bulk could not
have been anything excessive.”
“That is true,” said the curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of hearing
such nonsense, he asked him what was his notion of the features of Reinal-
dos of Montalban, and Don Roland and the rest of the Twelve Peers of
France, for they were all knights-errant.
“As for Reinaldos,” replied Don Quixote, “I venture to say that he was
broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat prominent
eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, and given to the society of thieves
and scapegraces. With regard to Roland, or Rotolando, or Orlando (for the
histories call him by all these names), I am of opinion, and hold, that he was
of middle height, broad-shouldered, rather bow-legged, swarthy-complex-
ioned, red-bearded, with a hairy body and a severe expression of counte-
nance, a man of few words, but very polite and well-bred.”
“If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has de-
scribed,” said the curate, “it is no wonder that the fair Lady Angelica reject-
ed him and left him for the gaiety, liveliness, and grace of that budding-
bearded little Moor to whom she surrendered herself; and she showed her
sense in falling in love with the gentle softness of Medoro rather than the
roughness of Roland.”
“That Angelica, senor curate,” returned Don Quixote, “was a giddy
damsel, flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of her
vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She treated with scorn a thousand
gentlemen, men of valour and wisdom, and took up with a smooth-faced
sprig of a page, without fortune or fame, except such reputation for grati-
tude as the affection he bore his friend got for him. The great poet who sang
her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not caring to sing her adventures after her
contemptible surrender (which probably were not over and above cred-
itable), dropped her where he says:
How she received the sceptre of Cathay, Some bard of defter quill may
sing some day;
and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called vates,
that is to say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for since then a famous
Andalusian poet has lamented and sung her tears, and another famous and
rare poet, a Castilian, has sung her beauty.”
“Tell me, Senor Don Quixote,” said the barber here, “among all those
who praised her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady
Angelica?”
“I can well believe,” replied Don Quixote, “that if Sacripante or Roland
had been poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for it is natu-
rally the way with poets who have been scorned and rejected by their ladies,
whether fictitious or not, in short by those whom they select as the ladies of
their thoughts, to avenge themselves in satires and libels—a vengeance, to
be sure, unworthy of generous hearts; but up to the present I have not heard
of any defamatory verse against the Lady Angelica, who turned the world
upside down.”
“Strange,” said the curate; but at this moment they heard the housekeeper
and the niece, who had previously withdrawn from the conversation, ex-
claiming aloud in the courtyard, and at the noise they all ran out.
